The next minute he had
folded her in one of those strong-armed embraces which speak of a glad
return to one whose life is a part of one's own. "I wonder," he
murmured, with his cheek pressed to hers, "if a man ever came back to
sweeter arms than these!"
But she knew, in spite of this greeting, that his heart was heavy. Her
own heart sank. But she waited, asking no questions. He would tell her
when he was ready.
He drew her down upon the couch beside him and sat with his arm around
her. "No, I don't want to lie down just yet," he said. "I just want you.
I'm keeping you in suspense, I know; I oughtn't to do that. Jord's life
is all right, and he'll be himself again in time, but--well, I've lost
my nerve for a bit--I can't talk about it."
His voice broke. By and by it steadied again; and, his weariness
partially lifted by the heartening little breakfast Ellen brought him on
a tray, he told her the story of the night:
"Jord was coming in from the Coldtown Waterworks, forty miles out, late
for dinner and hustling to make up time. Aleck, the Kings' chauffeur,
was with him. They were coming in at a good clip, even for a back
street, probably twenty-five or thirty. There wasn't much on the street
except ahead, by the curb, a wagon, and coming toward him a big motor
truck. When he was fifty feet from the wagon a fellow stepped out from
behind it to cross the street. It was right under the arc light, and
Jord recognized Franz--'Little Hungary' you know--with his fiddle under
his arm, crossing to go in at the stage door of the Victoria Theatre,
where he plays.
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